"You can't be wise and in love at the same time." -- Bob Dylan
*
Nestled in the woods of Essex County is a small two-bedroom camp. It's situated on two acres of land and overlooks picturesque Douglas Lake. The camp was built by my father and his father almost ten years before I was born. They intended it to be a place to go in the summer to fish and to hunt in the winter. Then once us kids started arriving it became a place for us to go camping each spring and summer.
Those weekends at the camp with my parents, brother and sisters are some of the happiest memories of my life. Every July Dad would take a week's vacation from his job at Hewitt's Hardware in downtown Mason Springs, where we lived. I especially looked forward to this extended stay at the camp each summer. We would help him load the station wagon with sleeping bags, blankets, boxes of canned food and everything else we needed for the trip.
For ten days every summer we would spend our days swimming, hiking or paying cards and board games if it rained. Dad had built a barbeque pit in back of the camp where he cooked chicken that Mom had packed in bags of ice. Sometimes Dad caught a few trout in the lake and we had those as a treat. Then some nights once it grew dark and we didn't feel like playing Scrabble or Monopoly us kids would sit on the floor in front of an old plaid couch that Dad had bought at a yard sale and he would tell us ghost stories by the light of a kerosene lamp. Mom would sometimes scold him for frightening us, but I loved hearing those creepy tales of ghosts or escaped lunatics whom Dad swore roamed those woods at nights.
Once I reached twenty I came to believe that our little camp really was haunted by ghosts. No, not the kind like poor Ebenezer Scrooge was visited by on Christmas Eve, nor the type that terrorize families whose houses are built on ancient burial grounds. These ghosts were the kind that dwell in our own minds and haunt us day and night, but are of our own creation.
They say that Heaven is full of people who are forgiven and Hell is full of people who can't forgive themselves. The latter applied to me, and I was only eventually freed from the hell of my own making by the love and understanding of my younger sister, Lori. She felt responsible for my plight, but I honestly never blamed her. Still, I will be forever grateful for her having shown me how to forgive myself and love her in a whole different way.
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By the time I was twenty-five there had been many changes in our family -- not all of them welcome ones. My grandfather had been gone for fifteen years and Dad had died of a heart attack almost two years previously. Mom was fifty-seven and still living in our childhood home. My older brother and sister were thirty-somethings. Justin was a lawyer, married, with a two-year old son and living with his wife in Austin. Michelle was married too. She and her husband, Gavin, lived a few blocks from Mom. She was a nurse and Gavin was a veterinarian. They had a daughter, Kelly, who was four.
Lori, the youngest of us kids, was twenty-two. She was still living with Mom while she completed her final year at business school. Lori wanted to move out, but was forced by finances to remain at home. I was happy about this; I think Mom was too. Mom wasn't getting any younger. Her arthritis had gotten worse over the years and she was glad to not be living alone. I was very glad that Lori was there with her.
I had fulfilled my strongest ambition once I reached my early twenties. When I was twelve my parents gave me a camera for Christmas. That began my life-long passion for photography. I had gone to art college in Kensington after finishing high school and earned a B.F.A. in Photography. At twenty-four I began working with a portrait photographer in town. Eventually I started shooting weddings and other stuff on my own most weekends for extra money. I had a small apartment, a car that I leased. I was making a pretty good living. Life was good. Life would have been perfect were it not for the tense relationship I had with Lori. Then one Saturday my mother told me something that ended up changing that for good. It was the second week of July and I had stopped in to visit Mom, like I always did once or twice a week.
"David, I've been thinking about selling the camp," Mom said. We were sitting at opposite ends of her kitchen table. She was having a cup of tea and I was eating banana bread she had made and drinking a glass of Pepsi.
"Uh... okay," I said, somewhat surprised.
Mom let out a heavy sigh. "It's just that we haven't used it since your father died and probably won't," she said. "I've talked it over with your brother and sisters and none of them want to buy it and they agree with me. Soon it will need repairs, so it's best to sell it before then."
I nodded, feeling a lump growing in my throat. Memories of summers past flashed in my mind. The thought of letting the camp go saddened me. But once I reconsidered it I admitted to myself that I only wanted to keep the camp out of sentimentality. The cold hard reality was that I hadn't wanted to go up there in the past year or so. Neither had anyone else. Even once the camp was sold I would always have my memories and photographs of the times we had spent there. There was also one other important consideration: Mom needed the money that selling the camp would bring in.
"I think that's a good idea, Mom," I said. "It's only going to be a money pit in a year or so anyway. It's best to sell it now, while it's still worth something." When I saw a smile on my mother's face it relieved me. I thought for a few seconds, then said "But before you sell it, I'd like to go up there one last time. There are some things I'd like to take out of it. None of it is really valuable -- mostly pictures and stuff, but it all reminds me of my childhood. Plus, it would be fun to spend one last weekend there. You can come if you want."
Mom reached inside the sleeve of her purple cardigan. She pulled out a piece of Kleenex and wiped her teary eyes with it. She shook her head. "No, I don't want to go back there," Mom said. "I want to remember it as it was. But you go ahead, David -- stay as long as you want." She gave me a weak smile.
"Thanks, Mom," I said. "I can probably go up there next week. I have some sick days accumulated at work, so I could stay about five days."
"Go where, Dave?"
I turned my head and saw Lori standing in the entrance to the kitchen. Her hands were in the pockets of her shorts and she looked curious. Her blue eyes were glued to me.
"Up to the camp," I told my sister. "I want to get some things out of it before Mom sells it and I thought it would be fun to spend a little time up there while I'm at it."
